


Contingency

by BeatrixKiddo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Established Mycroft Holmes/Original Character, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, I can't believe I wrote a werewolf fic, I promise, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's more subtle then you'd expect, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Feels, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Mycroft, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Mycroft, Werewolf Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3183725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatrixKiddo/pseuds/BeatrixKiddo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s an experimental trial, she told herself, stay objective for a few more days.  In a best-case scenario, Mycroft’s shrewdness would be distorted by the sentiment he despised, putting the brothers on a level playing field, making this a more accurate experimental trial.  Worst-case, Sherlock was as close to a trial run as she could get.  Plus, Sherlock thought she was an idiot, which would work in her favor.<br/>"You're an idiot." Sherlock swung his legs off the couch and stood in one fluid motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contingency

Contingency 

 

Alexis closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath outside the door to 221B.  Let his brother suspect first; that was the plan. Even if he didn’t say anything to Mycroft before Friday, his suspicions would serve as more proof once she brought evidence home that evening.  Or maybe Friday’s results would be positive, and all this groundwork would be for nothing.  Contingency plans are never wasted plans, Myc would say.  She bit her lip hard to refocus herself.  Alexis knocked and waited for Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps before she stepped back and plastered a small smile on her face. It was a little easier to imitate contentment with Mrs. Hudson then most people; she really was a wonderful lady.

            “Oh, lovely.  How are you dear?”

            “I’m well, thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” she stepped inside and immediately leaned in to kiss the shorter woman’s cheek while removing her gloves. Her cheek was warm and smelled faintly of peppermint.  “How have you been?”

            “My hip’s acting up, but otherwise I’m fine.  How’s that husband of yours?”

            “He’s well.  Protects Queen and country; occasionally remembers to bring home flowers.”

            “That’s sweet.  You wouldn’t know he had that in him from looking at him, dear.” 

            “No, you wouldn’t.  It’s his posture-makes him seem so foreboding.”

            They both smiled, and Mrs. Hudson rubbed Alexis’s upper arm. Mrs. Hudson had always been kind to her, but she seemed to mother her a little more after last Christmas when Alexis had expressed the woman’s uncanny resemblance to Alexis’s Aunt, who was uncompromisingly cheery and just the right amount of sassy.

            “Your American accent is so cute, Lexi.  Not like I remember it from my days in the states, but still very sweet.”

Alexis blushed and wrinkled her nose.  “That’s because you think all Americans have Southern drawls or add a “w” to coffee. Florida’s not exactly an ideal sample set for the country’s population.”

            Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows and smiled.

            “Yes, alright.  I admit it. Sometimes I add a “w” to coffee.”

            “And tawk,” Mrs. Hudson imitated. 

            Alexis exaggerated a sigh and rolled her eyes dramatically. “So are those two home? I have a request for the brooding brother.”

            Alexis brought the corner of a thumbnail to her teeth for a brief moment, hoping John would be there to encourage vocalization of whatever deductions Sherlock would make.  Then she chided herself inwardly for showing such an obvious tell—Mycroft would have tsk-ed, shook his head, and kissed her thumb. 

            “John’s just come back from the shops.  Good luck with the other one,” Mrs. Hudson turned and trilled her fingers in a wave by her shoulder as she headed toward her door, “Drop off my sugar on the way out, will you?”

            “Of course, Mrs. Hudson.”

            Up the stairs.  Now or never.

            Alexis knocked lightly with the knuckle of her middle finger and held her hand on the doorknob until she heard John’s muffled voice inviting her inside.

            “Come in, Ms. Hudson: sugar’s on the counter.”

            “Great. She asked me to bring it down on my way out.”

            “Lexi.” John grinned, still hunched with his head half inside the refrigerator. He dropped two deep red steaks with a thud and shut the crisper with one hand and the refrigerator door with the other.  He spun to grab both her arms just above the elbows and squeezed: a greeting and condolence all in one.  Alexis was very new to this life, but John was not.  The gesture had become their version of an embrace, John’s careful acknowledgement of their solidarity; the Holmes boys really didn’t like anyone touching their things, regardless of the intention. 

Other than Mrs. Hudson, this was really all the casual contact Alexis enjoyed.  In the first few months after she met Mycroft, she had felt irrationally uncomfortable simply being in someone else’s personal space. Myc had said it was part psychological and part pheromones, vestigial responses to external threats to ones mate.  He had found her muttered “vestigial, my ass” response amusing at first, rewarding her with one of his subtle smirks, and a playful eye roll and scoff at her vulgarity.  After she had pushed him a little more, he eventually shrugged, nodded in agreement, and assured her it would subside significantly over time. Alexis had been grateful when she could ride the tube again at rush hour without feeling like she was going to hyperventilate or elbow anyone within proximity. After a particularly crowded Wednesday night she had come home with a deep purple bite mark on her bottom lip and an insatiable need for affection.  Mycroft had lavished her with gentle kisses in his office, paying particular attention to the bruise and doing nothing to hide his satisfaction.

            “What brings you to these parts?” John momentarily hovered to gauge her expression then moved to add water to the kettle.  He knew something was off, had known for weeks now. Alexis had alluded to struggling with Mycroft’s long hours away from home so early in their relationship. She had given John an extremely brief, but emotionally charged confession in a crowded café one afternoon. It had served the dual purpose of both keeping John’s further questions to a minimum and giving Mycroft the ability to glean an explanation for her melancholy from the security detail’s weekly report on her normally monotonous life.  John hadn’t bought it completely.  But he had understood.  He was perceptive, but so very refreshingly, wonderfully, magnificently respectful of her privacy.  Something she had never truly appreciated pre-Holmes.

Currently Sherlock was lying on the couch, hands perched as if in prayer, eyes shut.  Shit.  She had hoped to catch him at the microscope, so he would be more likely to acknowledge her, deduce her.  Contingency plan: lure him out with a subtle lie.  Alexis angled herself so she could address John but watch Sherlock out of her peripheral vision.  He looked feral compared to her husband.  Reclining on the couch, his dark curls fell in such a way that made him look unkempt and wild, but Alexis knew she was just projecting; to any other observer both Holmes’s would look the epitome of refined. But she had seen both of them angry and protective and in their natural states.  Alexis shuddered at the first memory and pulled her jacket closer to feign a chill.

            “Just stopped in to say hi.  I was hoping Sherlock could help me with an idea for Mycroft’s birthday present. I thought he might have some better ideas than me.” Nothing.  He didn’t even shift an eyebrow.  Too subtle a lie?  No. Just not interesting enough. She suspected as much.

            “Oh, is his birthday coming up?” The next question hung thick in the air between them. _Please don’t ask when it is.  Mycroft will hate it if I let you obligate Sherlock into anything._ Alexis shifted all her focus on John, who had just turned to lean his back against the counter, arms crossed. As the kettle started to gurgle behind him, John pursed his lips to hide his grin, but his eyes gave him away, wide and bright with amusement.  Apparently Sherlock would hate it as well.  They both laughed.  It was her first genuine laugh in months, and she let the tension unwind from her shoulders as she looked down at the kitchen’s linoleum, still smiling. 

            “Yep,” Alexis nodded, letting the “p” pop off her lips, letting her smirk linger. God, she loved her new family. She would do anything for them. Alexis licked her lips, and jumped in the deep end.   “Right.  Well.  I suppose Sherlock’s useless to me in this state.  He’s hardly a willing participant when he’s not…thinking….I guess. No problem, I was in the area anyway.”

            Sherlock opened his eyes abruptly and turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes. Showtime.  The kettle clicked. 

            “No. You weren’t.” Sherlock sat up.

            “The beast awakens,” John mused.  He turned to make the tea. 

            “Your hair is damp.” Sherlock sniffed the air once and held in his breath. “The cheap, industrial shampoo from the gym you prefer, not the posh gym Mycroft prefers you use. Your gym is nowhere near here. And you are far better equipped to find a gift for my brother then I ever was.  Of which you are inherently aware.”

            Alexis clenched her teeth hard to brace herself.  She established a foundation of a lie, but what Sherlock built from it was out of her control.  She knew he was infinitely smarter than her husband had taught her to be (she had been taught a few parlor tricks to distort the physical data on her person and told a few sensitive topics that would divert attention away from an unwanted topic).  But Alexis also knew Sherlock wasn’t nearly as clever as Mycroft.  Either way, there was little she could do if Sherlock saw through this whole scheme.  It’s an experimental trial, she told herself, stay objective for a few more days.  In a best-case scenario, Mycroft’s shrewdness would be distorted by the sentiment he despised, putting the brothers on a level playing field, making this a more accurate experimental trial.  Worst-case, Sherlock was as close to a trial run as she could get. Plus, Sherlock thought she was an idiot, which would work in her favor. 

            “You’re an idiot.”  Sherlock swung his legs off the couch and stood in one fluid motion.  He stalked toward Alexis and brought his face close to hers, so they were almost touching.  She saw John approaching, but couldn’t hear anything over her own breathing. Within a moment John was nearly as close, clenching his fists at his sides, completing their hostile little circuit. She was unsure if John was attempting to protect her from Sherlock or preventing her from getting any closer to his mate.  Maybe both.  She just wanted them to back away; Alexis felt her blood hum with the tension and their proximity.

            “What the hell, Sherlock?” John wasn’t really asking a question.

            But Sherlock was already inhaling deeply.  He tilted his head and stooped even lower to scent her neck. He growled low and barely audibly. Alexis closed her eyes and stopped breathing.  Without really being conscious of it, she momentarily felt guilty John was witnessing this scene.  She opened her eyes.

“He’s going to kill you, Lexi,” for a fleeting moment, she saw pity in Sherlock’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced with distain, then disinterest.  “Or, more likely, have you killed.  Mycroft loathes getting involved.”

“Yes.  He does.”  Alexis released her breath and continued at a quick, shallow pace.

“What’s going on?” John demanded.  He stood close, shoulders rigid, ready for a battle that wasn’t coming.  “Sherlock.”

Sherlock spun flippantly and made for his violin by the window.  Without turning his back, he started plucking at each string. “Alexis is cheating on my brother. Not bright, but I don’t blame her. He’s done nothing to dispel her glaringly obvious insecurities about her place in the marriage. She showered to dispel the evidence of her tryst, but I can smell the remnants of saliva on her neck: not Mycroft’s.  Disgusting either way.  I wouldn’t bother buying him a gift; you won’t make it to see his birthday.”

That was eight days away. She only needed to make it three to be sure she was as useless to Mycroft as she felt.  She imagined a successful experiment would feel more gratifying.  Alexis turned to John, edged the corners of her mouth in a weak impersonation of a smile, and took gloves out of her pocket. 

“ Thanks anyway for the tea.”

She turned to make her way to the door, and stopped mid-stride.  A glove fell to the floor.  _No, no, no, this is too soon_. There was still hope. Results on Friday. Three more days. Her husband stood in the doorway, his right hand grinding the curve of his umbrella handle.  She bit her bottom lip and drew blood.

“ Myc,” Alexis whispered. He was staring through her, beneath hooded eyebrows.  His lip curled slightly.  Probably not a good time to affectionately tease him with the nickname he hated. “We should go someplace…private…”

She made to move past him, but he grabbed her wrist.  Hard. In one fluid motion he spun her around and pushed her back to the wall beside the door.  Her head hit from the momentum and he dropped his umbrella to grab her throat with his other hand.  Still pinned by wrist and neck, Alexis closed her eyes and tried to stay back tears.  She made no effort to move and let her throat labor and spasm at will.  She had outsmarted the Holmes.  Three days too soon.  She was committed now to complete the illusion. He would be better off with someone else, someone smarter, less emotional, more British.  Alexis whimpered with her decision.

Mycroft dipped his head into the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply.  For a moment it was almost intimate, as it had been so many times before, until he huffed and growled.  He switched to her other ear and, releasing the slightest bit of pressure from her neck, he snarled through gritted teeth, “Why did you come here?”

Of course. CCTV reports.  A departure from the ordinary.  She labored to bring in air, which was to stall as much as it was to bring in much needed oxygen. 

“Trial….run…” the grip tightened again, and she felt herself grabbing the back of his shoulder loosely with her free hand for support…or maybe for comfort while she was slowly suffocating to death.  It must have looked ridiculous, this violent embrace.  She felt like a deer, weak and stupid, seeking aid from the wolf about to devour her.  Her wolf.

“We mate for life. He must have told you this,” Sherlock punctuated his scolding by gesturing his violin bow in her general direction.  She saw it moving, but kept her eyes fixed resolutely on Mycroft.  This might be the last time she would see him. “He couldn’t possibly have hidden his basic nature beneath enough pomp and decorum to make you think cheating was a viable option,” Sherlock scoffed, “And you thought you could get passed me? Gain some confidence before going home to my big brother?”

Alexis slid her free hand slowly from Mycroft’s shoulder down to his wrist, never once breaking her contact with his arm.  She applied as little pressure as she could with her thumb, silently asking him permission to speak. He released his grip almost fully without removing his hand from her neck.  She coughed crudely and took several gasps for air. It took significant effort to speak, because she had to pause for more air so often. 

“Th’Park.  Take me.  To the park,” she eventually got out.  “I’ll tell you.  All about him.”  It was risky, but she needed to get him alone, work his ego into a frenzy, get the wolf to take over. Imply her devotion to someone else and let the waning gibbous do the rest of the work.  Alexis had known when she first started planning, when her original doctor first suggested they “simply run more tests,” that it would take a tremendous effort to get Mycroft to kill her himself. Sherlock was absolutely right. He didn’t like to get his hands—or paws—dirty.  Not when he could persuade someone else to get involved in his stead. 

“Boring. What could you possibly tell him that he doesn’t already know?” Sherlock moved to sit in his chair, still holding the violin, plucking occasionally, impatiently waiting for this distraction to leave his apartment so he could compose in peace. “Someone in the medical field. Graying, but dies his hair black. Approximately 180cm. Left handed.”

“A doctor.” John stated.

Oh God.  John was going to be the one to ruin this plan? She hadn’t accounted for John. Alexis tensed. She shifted her eyes from Mycroft to John, who was, of course, staring at Sherlock. Why didn’t anyone ever account for John?  Mycroft must have sensed her sudden surge of panic, because he retightened his grip on her neck. Alexis whimpered loudly. The point was not to get some poor sap killed, it was to get Mycroft out of a marriage with a barren, boorish simpleton.

“Who is it, John,” Mycroft demanded, deadly calm.

Ignoring Mycroft, John looked at Alexis.  Even short of breath and quickly becoming dizzy, Alexis cringed at the affront to her mate. Her alpha wolf. This was why they spent so little time with all four of them in the same room.  “Franklin? Joe Franklin?” John asked.  “You asked me for a recommendation. I can’t believe-”

“She asked you?” Sherlock was up, the violin forgotten at his side.  “What type of doctor did she ask for?”

“She didn’t,” John looked at Sherlock then Mycroft.  “Just asked for someone who wasn’t under Mycroft’s thumb.  I figured she wanted some privacy.”

“You knew what tests you needed.  Or you suspected. You just needed a doctor to order them.”  Sherlock was pacing now.

Mycroft moved his hand away from Alexis’s neck and gently released the hand on her wrist. _No, no,  no_.   She uncontrollably shook her head with her thoughts.  She felt a deep red flush rising into her cheeks. 

“Oh.  You’re more clever than I realized. But you knew that, too,” Sherlock clasped his hands together and rested his steepled index fingers on his lips.  “Still stupid, but marginally less so.”

“Enough, Sherlock.” Mycroft had brought himself back to full height and straightened his posture.  He ran his palm over the side of his head to fix any errant hairs. There he was, Alexis thought, the man who ran the wolf.  Very much the opposite of his brother.  Controlled and impassive outside the sanctity of their home. She wanted to reach out and follow his hand, run her fingertips through his hair. Explain how much better he deserved. 

“Does he chew his pens, John?”

“Does he…what? Pens. Um…I don’t…I have no idea.”

“He must.  That was it, wasn’t it.  Of course it was.  You smeared it on and purposefully avoided cleaning your neck.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek, but she remained composed.  She was already disgusted with herself.  “I shouldn’t have tried.  I just thought…I just thought this would be easier. On you, Myc.”

“What you tried to get me to do would not have been easier.”

“I disagree. Now you’ll know before it happens. And you won’t be able to stop it. Not forever.  Eventually I’ll find a way.  I’ll be useless to you like this.  It’s the one thing I have to offer you.”

“This is absurd.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “It’s not the one thing you have to offer me.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll always find it endearing that I have to actually ask the neighbors about their son to know how he’s doing.  How long will it be novel to make me think I’m the one choosing the restaurant you want? And I’ve no doubt it does wonders at the office when people discover your wife is American. If I can’t give you a litter of little Holmes pups, what’s my purpose?  Unless there’s something John’s not telling us, I’m pretty sure you’re the last hope for the Holmes bloodline. You claimed me as a mate because I smelled good.  Pheromones. Nothing else.  You’ll find someone better suited.  Someone with an equally delicious chemical signature. Have Sherlock whip something up-”

“If.”  Mycroft interrupted her rant.  “You’re not certain.” 

“I…What?” Alexis shook her head, all her momentum lost.  “Friday.  Lab results back on Friday.”

John threw his arms up in the air.  “Let me get this right. You thought tricking him into murdering you was a good way to cope with infertility? But really only the possibility of infertility.” Sherlock jutted his lips out in a seems-reasonable-to-me expression, which only enraged John more, “You’re mad. You’re all insane.”

“Mate for life,” Alexis shrugged as an explanation, still addressing only her husband.  “I couldn’t think of another way to give you what you needed.”

“I know.”  Mycroft brushed a thumb over Alexis’s cheekbone. “Home, Alexis.”

Not a request. She pushed herself off the wall with her foot.  If John had taught her one thing, it was to know how to choose your battles.  Mycroft stood back and bent to pick up her glove and his umbrella. 

“Sorry, John,” Alexis whispered.  Her throat hurt and her voice was raspy.  She tried for lighthearted, “If it makes you feel any better, you’re the reason it didn’t work.” Sherlock huffed indignantly.  “Part of the reason.  I didn’t _think_ I’d get it past you, Sherlock. But I had to try something.  I’ve got a soft spot for your brother.”

“He’s got a plethora of soft spots. You suit each other.”

“No.  We don’t.”  Alexis tongued the dried blood on her bottom lip. So much for light-hearted. She grabbed the glove from her husband without looking at him.  Mycroft sighed heavily and walked out of 221B without hesitation. She watched him from the doorway; he was reading from his phone as he effortlessly made his way downward, each stair creaking slightly as he descended. She had just threatened her own life, in no uncertain terms, pending Friday’s lab results.  She was not looking forward to the restrictions that lay ahead, those he was likely implementing as he typed.  She dreaded being chastised for acting in a way she was convinced was right.  And yet, all Alexis wanted to do was curl up next to Mycroft in their bed and seduce him into accepting her apology. Was the desire to have make-up sex an evolutionary leftover to keep one’s mate content? She was just trying to do the right thing; why should she feel guilty about that? Suddenly, Alexis was angry, bordering on enraged. Her psyche was at war with her instincts to cow to Mycroft. For the first time since she met him, Alexis resented that Mycroft was a wolf.

Lost in thought, Alexis didn’t notice John move to Sherlock’s side and gruffly elbow him forward a half step.  He moaned and spoke, begrudgingly, “You don’t know what he was like before you.”

Alexis didn’t turn. She wasn’t even sure Sherlock was speaking to her.  She just stood, glaring down the stairs.  John gestured forward with his hand impatiently.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock continued, “He was an alpha: merciless, conniving, aloof.”

“He’s still all those things.”

“No, Lexi. Now he’s your mate first and everything else second.” Sherlock whirled to face the window and began pulling a sad melody from the violin.  John strode to the kitchen and returned to place a small, dense package in her gloved hand. 

“First day I spent with Sherlock, I killed a man for him.  First night I saw what he really was, I accepted him immediately,” John paused to face his mate.  “There’s rarely been a full moon since that I don’t consider killing him.  It doesn’t get easier.  It just gets more…domestic.” 

Alexis looked at the bag of sugar for answers.  Nothing. She made her way onto the landing and down to her waiting husband.  Mycroft took the sugar silently, placed it on the narrow table outside Mrs. Hudson’s room and made his way back briskly.  Alexis moved to step aside, but Mycroft shifted behind her.  He reached both arms over her shoulders to pull her coat collar closed tighter in the front. She leaned back into his chest to feel the vibrations as he spoke. 

“Do you know what your name means, Alexis?”

Alexis laughed through her nose, but nodded, letting the back of her head rub against her mate’s chest. “Defender. Protector.”

“I work in absolutes. I see how people make decisions like cogs in a clock, each one affecting another in a predetermined fashion. I move the cogs to suit my needs. Where I see a bothersome divergence from my own contingency plans, you see the potential in a person’s impulsiveness. Where Sherlock mimics emotion to elicit information, you and John engender trust.  People offer themselves to you.  Wolves seek compliments in mates, as do most people.”

“How is this relevant? John is a soldier, a doctor.  He dissuades Sherlock under the guise of encouraging him.  He protects Sherlock from himself, from others. I couldn’t protect you even if you needed it.  In fact, I’m a liability in your line of work. My parents were hippies: they named me on a whim.”

“You are instinctively loyal to my wishes, even when you know I have ulterior motives.  You are compassionate beyond my capabilities for ruthlessness. Your presence in my life defends the _world_ from _me_ , Alexis,” Mycroft sighed.  “I was neglectful in my responsibilities to make sure you knew that. To your credit, you manipulated my perception of your emotional state surprisingly well.”

Alexis knew it was a compliment she might never deserve again, but she couldn’t enjoy it.  “I have the benefit of seeing you with your guard down. Not even your brother has that privilege.  Especially not your brother, I guess.  And yet, I’m sure it won’t happen again.” He slid a hand across her stomach beneath her coat and gripped her opposite hip tightly. Alexis held his arm in place with her own.  “We’re still at an impasse,” she whispered. “You won’t be able to convince me after Friday.”  

“We will address your other concerns when your tests have results, not sooner.  After the next three days I have planned there will be little I can’t convince you of.”

His grip tightened, and he nipped below her ear.  Alexis groaned.  It was very hard to think when he was like this, smelling of oak and faint hints of a sweet, smoky cigar. It was intoxicating. Mycroft removed his arm and gripped her shoulders, pushing her off his chest ever so slightly, steering her toward the door. 

“And you know when I’m attempting to manipulate you, but you let me do it.  Now, for example.  Or when we go out for dinner.  It annoys me constantly.  You know I’m skewing data in my favor- why do you let me?” Mycroft kissed the top of her head and continued so quietly she could barely hear his words, muffled by her hair, “You smile at me when you do it.  I don’t know why it amuses you.”

She turned around and looked up at him hopefully. Perhaps she had been forgiven.    

“No, I didn’t forgive your very public diatribe.  You threatened my mate.  In front of my brother, no less.”

Alexis hummed and nuzzled her nose into his neck. “I did.  I like to play with fire, Myc.  Speaking of which, for every bruise that shows up on my wrist and neck, I’m going to demand retribution.”

Mycroft licked his lips and Alexis saw a fleeting, predatory smirk.  She shuddered.  “Home, Alexis.”

Epilogue

“Thank God. It smells like dust in here. And chemicals. What are you distilling over here, Sherlock?” Alexis continued to take deep breathes in through her nose and out her mouth as she waddled over to the table to gently flick the liquid condensing into a round-bottomed flask suspended from a ring stand.

            “Good Lord.  We’re leaving.” Mycroft curled his lip and stayed in the doorway. 

            “Sit, Mycroft.” Alexis pulled out the chair opposite Sherlock far enough to accommodate herself and rubbed her stomach absentmindedly.

            “Neither of you are going to stay here breathing this air.  We can walk in the park,” he paused. “Why are we even here?”

“She loves it here; she’s kicking already.  Your wild beast may need plenty of time outdoors later, but as of right now, if you make me get any more _fresh air_ I swear to God, Myc, I will visit my parents and induce labor while I’m on American soil.”

John snickered from his chair, folded and put his paper down, and made his way toward the kettle. “An American niece; how delightful.”

Mycroft shifted his weight at the door and jutted his chin out.  “You wouldn’t make it to the plane.”

“Not without help, love. Sherlock?”

Sherlock smirked without looking up from his microscope slide.  “Lower the burner, would you?”

Alexis stood with a small grunt, gripped the base of her belly, and pinned her husband back with a glare as he made to move forward.  She bent down low to carefully twist the knob on the burner, blackened and rusty from too many chemical spills. 

“Oh, good. We can add neonatal tetanus shots to the baby’s memory book.”

A barely audible growl rumbled deep within Alexis’s throat, surprising herself and Sherlock both. He turned his head slightly to look at her.  With pleading eyes, she implored her brother-in-law for a reprieve.  Sherlock tapped the nail of his index finger several times on an empty glass slide on the table and spun in his chair to look Mycroft up and down deliberately. 

“Gaining sympathy weight?” Sherlock mused.

Alexis sighed as the baby kicked; she made her way over to the couch to put her feet up and watch.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone will actually read this, but if you did, I hope you enjoyed it. It's the first fanfic I've ever written and the first story I've written in years. I would love to hear your thoughts, so please leave a comment--constructive criticism or otherwise. It would mean a lot to me. 
> 
> At the risk of being overly sentimental....even if you don't have the time or inclination to leave a comment, but you've still actually read this silly, little story to the end: thank you.
> 
> And now (large gulp of alcohol)...post it. 
> 
> Okay, seriously this time (more alcohol)...post it.
> 
> Anyone want to see how Alexis and Mycroft met? Or the first night Alexis found out about the Holmes brothers? Eh...probably not. But I thought I'd ask.


End file.
